


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

by FormulatingSexuality



Series: Harry Potter Rewrite [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Canon Rewrite, Harry Potter Rewrite, JK Rowling is a transphobe, JK Rowling is racist, Multi, So I'm rewriting the books, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, she's also homophobic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26584297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormulatingSexuality/pseuds/FormulatingSexuality
Summary: JK Rowling has done messed up, so I'm rewriting each Harry Potter book without the transphobic, racist, homophobic stuff in it. As well as a few character stuff and plot issues, a few grammar mistakes too surprisingly.
Series: Harry Potter Rewrite [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933834
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. CHAPTER ONE - The Boy Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. 

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the length of the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley, and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere. 

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years. In fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that. 

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. 

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. 

At half-past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive. 

On the street corner, he noticed the first sign of something peculiar, a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen. Then he jerked his head around to look again. A tabby cat was standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat; it stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive. No, looking at the sign, cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town, he thought of nothing except a large order of drills, he hoped to get that day. 

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about, People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes. The getup you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt. These people were collecting for something... 

Yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. 

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people and made several important telephone calls. Then shouted a bit more. He was in an excellent mood until lunchtime when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. 

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. 

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry." 

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. 

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter, who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, and he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he had a sister like that. But those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door. 

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a broad smile, and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!" 

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. 

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. A stranger had hugged him. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he imagined things. He had never hoped before because he disapproved of imagination. 

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw, and it didn't improve his mood, was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. 

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife. 

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, typical day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act naturally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: "And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. 

"Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?" 

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early. It's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight." 

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters... 

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room, carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er- Petunia, dear- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" 

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they usually pretended she didn't have a sister. 

"No," she said sharply. "Why?" 

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..." 

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley. 

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd." 

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could, "Their son, he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?" 

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly. 

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?" 

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me." 

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree." 

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. 

While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. 

It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. 

Did he imagine things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of- well, he didn't think he could bear it. 

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. It couldn't affect them... 

How very wrong he was. 

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue. Its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. It was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. 

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched, and its eyes narrowed. 

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by his hair and beard's silver color, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. 

His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles, and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore. 

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known." 

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again, and the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment, he spoke to it. 

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." 

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses, exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled. 

"How did you know it was me?" she asked. 

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly." 

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall. 

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." 

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. 

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. 

"You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no. Even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something — shooting stars down in Kent. I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense." 

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years." 

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." 

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to have disappeared, at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?" 

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?" 

"A what?" 

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of." 

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -" 

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name. 

"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of." 

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have." 

"Only because you're too, well- noble to use them." 

"It's lucky, and it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs." 

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. Do you know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?" 

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" said, she would not believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer. 

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are- are- that they're- dead.

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped. 

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... 

Oh, Albus..." 

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily. 

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. 

They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke, and that's why he's gone. 

Dumbledore nodded glumly. 

"It's- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all, he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?" 

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know." 

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. 

It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?" 

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?" 

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now." 

"You don't mean- you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. 

"Dumbledore- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son. I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets."

"Harry Potter! come and live here!?" 

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter." 

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous, a legend. I wouldn't be surprised if today were known as Harry Potter day in the future! There will be books written about Harry. Every child in our world will know his name!" 

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?" 

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes- yes, you're right, of course. But surely we can leave him with someone else; blood is not so thick." 

Dumbledore's face softened while still retaining a grim look to it. "There is no other the boy can stay with, I fear of what might happen to him and the wizarding world, if he does not."

Minerva's look of concern didn't pass on, but she did change the topic of conversation, "But how is the boy getting here Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly, as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it. 

"Hagrid's bringing him." 

"You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" 

I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore. 

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to- what was that?" 

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky. A huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. 

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms, he was holding a bundle of blankets. 

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?" 

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir." 

"No problems were there?" 

"No, sir- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." 

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. 

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall. 

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever." 

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" 

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well- give him here, Hagrid- we'd better get this over with." 

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house. 

"Could I- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. 

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!" 

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it. Lily an' James dead- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -" 

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute, the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out. 

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations." 

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir." 

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar, it rose into the air and off into the night. 

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. 

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner, he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange, and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four. 

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel, and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. 

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him, and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't too many changes to the chapter. A dialogue choice that foreshadows a different, later change, but other than that, it's virtually the same.


	2. CHAPTER TWO - The Vanishing Glass

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece showed how much time had passed. 

Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets. But Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. 

The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house. 

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake, and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day. 

"Up! Get up! Now!" 

Harry woke with a start. His aunt beat on the door again. 

"Up!" she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before. 

His aunt was back outside the door. 

"Are you up yet?" she demanded. 

"Nearly," Harry bit. 

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday." 

Harry groaned. 

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door. 

"Nothing, nothing..." 

Dudley's birthday, how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and put them on after pulling a spider off one of them. Harry was used to spiders because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept. 

When he was dressed, he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was overweight and hated exercise. Unless, of course, it involved punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was nimble. 

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and thinner than he truly was because all he had to wear were Dudley's old clothes, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it. 

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask questions." 

Don't ask questions; that was the Dursley's first rule for a quiet life.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon. 

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting. 

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference. His hair simply grew that way: all over the place. 

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel. Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig. 

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. 

His face fell. 

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year." 

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy." 

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face. 

Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over. 

Aunt Petunia scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, Popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right'' Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally, he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty ... thirty..." 

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia. Harry nearly laughed. His own math skills weren't the best, but he could definitely add two to any number. 

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then." 

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair. 

At that moment, the telephone rang, and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried. 

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction. 

Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage, and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned. 

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again. 

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested. 

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy." 

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there. Or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug. 

"What about whats-her-name, your friend, Yvonne?" 

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia. 

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley's computer). 

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon. 

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled. 

"I won't blow up the house. How could I" said Harry, but they weren't listening. 

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "And leave him in the car..." 

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone." 

Dudley began to cry loudly. He wasn't really crying, it had been years since he'd really cried, but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted. 

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him. 

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp-spoils everything!" He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms. 

Just then, the doorbell rang. "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically, and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once. 

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside. 

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy, any funny business, anything at all, and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas." 

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, trying to keep the snap off his tongue, "honestly... 

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did. 

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry, and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen. 

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses. 

The next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly. 

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become until finally, it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash, and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished. 

On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received an outraged letter from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump. 

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room. 

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles. 

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them. 

I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It was flying." 

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!" 

Dudley and Piers sniggered. 

I know they don't," said Harry bluntly. "It was only a dream." 

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon. They seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas. 

It was a very sunny Saturday, and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance, and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn't blond. 

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one, and Harry was allowed to finish the first. 

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last. 

After lunch, they went to the reptile house. It was cold and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see giant, poisonous, cobras, and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can, but at the moment, it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep. 

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils. 

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge. 

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon knocked the glass gaily with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on. 

"This is boring," Dudley moaned, shuffling away. 

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself, No company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house. 

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's. 

It winked. 

Harry stared. Then he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too. 

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly: "I get that all the time. 

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying." 

The snake nodded vigorously. 

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked. 

The snake nodded its head at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it. 

Boa Constrictor, Brazil. 

"Was it nice there?" 

The boa constrictor nodded its head at the sign again, and Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see, so you've never been to Brazil?" 

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind, Harry made both of them jump. 

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!" 

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could. 

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened. One second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leaped back with howls of horror. 

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits. 

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come... Thanksss." 

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. 

"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?" 

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while apologizing repeatedly. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?" 

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go- cupboard- stay- no meals," before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy. 

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn't know what time it was, and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food. 

He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn't remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course, he was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house. 

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Bizarre strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. In a very long purple coat, a bald man had shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look. 

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less change than the last one. I removed some of the language referring to Vernon and Dudley as fat, as I felt some of it was insensitive.


	3. CHAPTER THREE - The Letters From No One

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays had started, and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. 

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon, were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting. 

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house. Wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came, he would be going off to secondary school, and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny. 

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?" 

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it. It might be sick." Then he ran before Dudley could work out what he'd said. 

In July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years. 

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life. 

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins. He looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh. 

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water. 

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he dared to ask a question. 

"Your new school uniform," she said. 

Harry looked in the bowl again. 

"Oh," he said, mild disgust in his voice, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet." 

"Don't be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished." 

Harry seriously doubted this but thought it best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how he would look on his first day at Stonewall High, like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably. 

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual, and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table. 

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat. 

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper. 

"Make Harry get it." 

"Get the mail, Harry." 

"Make Dudley get it." 

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley." 

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Harry. 

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like an elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives. He didn't have a library card, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: Mr. H. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. 

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. 

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke. 

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope. 

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. 

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk." 

"Dad!" blurted Dudley. "Dad, Harry's got something!" 

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon. 

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back. 

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge. 

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped. 

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment, it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise. 

"Vernon! Oh my goodness, Vernon!" 

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick. 

"I want to read that letter," he thundered. "I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "it's mine." 

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope. 

Harry didn't move. 

I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted. 

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley. 

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor. 

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address. How could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?" 

"Watching, spying, might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. 

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want-" 

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen. 

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it if they don't get an answer- yes, that's best. We won't do anything... 

"But-" 

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in, we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?" 

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard. 

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?" 

"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly. 

"I have burned it." 

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it." 

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful. 

"Er- yes, Harry. About this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom. 

"Why?" said Harry. 

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now." 

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next-door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end-all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. 

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don't want him in there. I need that room. Make him get out." 

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it. 

The next morning at breakfast, everyone was relatively quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly. 

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive'" 

Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat with a strangled cry and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult because Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand. 

"Go to your cupboard- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. 

"Dudley- go, just go." 

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard, and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time, he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan. 

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. 

He would wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door. Harry leaped into the air. He'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat, something alive! Lights clicked on upstairs, and to his horror, Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do precisely what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen, and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. 

Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. 

I want-" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. 

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them, they'll just give up." 

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon." 

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him. 

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot, they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. 

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" As he worked and jumped at small noises. 

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor. 

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in amazement. 

Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table on Sunday morning, looking tired and rather ill, but happy. 

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today." 

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. The next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leaped into the air, trying to catch one. 

"Out! OUT!" 

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall. 

Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut when Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor. 

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back here in five minutes, ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!" 

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later, they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. 

Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. 

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. Every now and then, Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this. 

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall, Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. 

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored, but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering... 

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table. 

"'Scuse me, but is one of you, Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk." 

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address: Mr. H. Potter Room 17 Railview Hotel Cokeworth Harry made a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The woman stared. 

"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room. 

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage. 

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared. 

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley sniveled. 

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. 

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday, and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of television, then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun. Last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. 

Still, you weren't eleven every day. 

Uncle Vernon was back, and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought. 

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!" 

It was freezing outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was sure. There was no television in there. 

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!" 

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them. 

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!" 

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks, and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours, they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. 

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. 

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire, but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up. 

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he chirped. 

He was in an excellent mood. Obviously, he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed though the thought didn't cheer him up at all. 

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the hut's walls, and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a Dudley bed on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket. 

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now. 

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. 

Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow. 

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea? One minute to go, and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten... 

Nine, maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him, three... two... 

One... 

BOOM. 

The whole shack shivered, and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost nothing changed. The bigger changes are going to be in chapter 5.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR - The Keeper Of The Keys

BOOM. 

They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly. 

There was a crash behind them, and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands. Now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them. 

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you! I'm armed!" 

There was a pause. Then

SMASH! 

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and, with a deafening crash, landed flat on the floor. 

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. 

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all. 

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..." 

He strode over to the sofa, where Dudley sat frozen with fear. 

"Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger. 

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon. 

"An' here's Harry!" said the giant. 

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile. 

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yet dad, but yeh've got ye mom's eyes." 

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise. 

"I demand that you leave at once!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!" 

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as surely as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room. 

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trampled on. 

"Anyway, Harry," said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here. I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right." 

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat, he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing. 

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, "Who are you?" 

The giant chuckled. 

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts." 

He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm. 

"What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands together. 

"I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind." 

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it, and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see what he was doing, but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light, and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk into a hot bath. 

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight. He began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat:  
a copper kettle  
a squashy package of sausages  
a poker  
a teapot  
several chipped mugs  
a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea

Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives you, Dudley." 

The giant chuckled darkly. 

"Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley, don' worry." 

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he still couldn't take his eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, "I'm sorry, but I still don't really know who you are." 

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"Call me Hagrid," he said, "everyone does. An' like I told yeh, I'm Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts. Yeh'll know all about Hogwarts, o' course. 

"Er- no," said Harry. 

Hagrid looked shocked. 

"Sorry," Harry said quickly. 

"Sony?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. "It's them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren't gettin' yer letters, but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou' Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yet parents learned it all?" 

"All what?" asked Harry. 

"ALL WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now, wait just one second!" 

He had leaped to his feet. In his anger, he seemed to fill the whole hut. 

The Dursleys were cowering against the wall. 

"Do you mean ter tell me," he growled at the Dursleys, "that this boy- this boy! knows nothin' about'- about ANYTHING?" 

Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after all, and his marks weren't bad. 

"I know some things," he said. "I can, you know, do math and stuff." But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, "About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents' world." 

"What world?" 

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode. 

"DURSLEY!" he boomed. 

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Harry. 

"But yeh must know about yet mom and dad," he said. "I mean, they're famous. You're famous." 

"What? My- my mom and dad weren't famous, were they?" 

"Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare. 

"Yeh don' know what yeh are?" he said finally. 

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice. 

"Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sit! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!" 

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage. 

"You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?" 

"Kept what from me?" said Harry eagerly. 

"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Uncle Vernon in panic. 

Aunt Petunia gasped in horror. 

"Ah, go boil yet heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. 

"Harry, yer a wizard." 

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard. 

"A-a what?" gasped Harry. 

"A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter." 

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read: 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards) 

Dear Mr. Potter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. 

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. 

Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks, and he couldn't decide which to ask first. After a few minutes, he stammered, "What does it mean, they await my owl?" 

"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart-horse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat, he pulled an owl. A real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl, a long quill, and a roll of parchment. 

With his tongue between his teeth, he scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down: Dear Professor Dumbledore, Given Harry his letter. 

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow. 

Weather's horrible. Hope you're Well. 

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, who clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone. 

Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly. 

"Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight. 

"He's not going," he said. 

Hagrid grunted. 

"I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said. 

"A what?" said Harry interested. 

"A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like them. 

An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on." 

"We swore when we took him in, we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!" 

"You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a-a wizard?" 

"Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course, we knew! How could you not be my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school-and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!" 

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had wanted to say all this for years. 

"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as- as- abnormal and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up, and we got landed with you!" 

Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice, he said, "Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!" 

"CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!" "But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently. 

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious. 

"I never expected this," he said in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh, but someone gotta, yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'." 

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys. 

"Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh. Mind, I can't tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it..." 

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It begins, I suppose, with- with a person called, but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows-" 

"Who? 

"Well- I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does." 

"Why not?" 

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..." 

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out. 

"Could you write it down?" Harry suggested. 

"Nah -can't spell it. All right, Voldemort. " Hagrid shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this- this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too. Some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before... probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side."

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'- an'-" 

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a filthy, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn. 

"Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad. Knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find- anyway..." 

"You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then, an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing, he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a Powerful, evil curse touches yeh, took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even, but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age; the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts. An' you was only a baby, an' you lived." 

Something harrowing was going on in Harry's mind. As Hagrid's story came to a close, he saw the blinding flash of green light again, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before. He remembered something else, for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel laugh. 

Hagrid was watching him sadly. 

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..." 

"Load of old tosh," said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid, and his fists were clenched. 

"Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured. And as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them, in my opinion. Asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types. Just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end-" 

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, "I'm warning you, Dursley -I'm warning you- one more word...

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon's courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent. 

"That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor. 

Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them. 

"But what happened to Vol-, sorry- I mean, You-Know-Who?" 

"Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see..."

"He was gettin' more an' more powerful, why'd he go? Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don~ reckon they could've done if he was comin' back."

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on. I dunno what it was, no one does, but somethin' about you stumped him, all right." 

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He'd spent his life being clouted by Dudley and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn't they been turned into warty toads every time they'd tried to lock him in his cupboard? If he'd once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had always been able to kick him around like a football? "Hagrid," he said quietly, "I think you must have made a mistake. I don't think I can be a wizard." 

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled. 

"Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?" 

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it. Every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry; chased by Dudley's gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach. Dreading going to school with that ridiculous haircut, he'd managed to make it grow back. The very last time Dudley had hit him, hadn't he got his revenge, without even realizing he was doing it? Hadn't he set a boa constrictor on him? Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at him. 

"See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a wizard- you wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts." 

But Uncle Vernon wasn't going to give in without a fight. 

"Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to Stonewall High, and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters, and he needs all sorts of rubbish; spell books and wands and-" 

"If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop him," growled Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter's son goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. 

His name's been down ever since he was born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled-" 

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" Yelled Uncle Vernon. 

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head, "NEVER," he thundered "- INSULT- ALBUS- DUMBLEDOREIN- FRONT- OF- ME!" 

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley. There was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. Harry saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers when he turned his back on them. 

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them. 

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard. 

"Shouldn't a lost me temper," he said ruefully, "but it didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much-left ter do." 

He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows. 

"Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts," he said. "I'm- er- not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff- one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job." 

"Why aren't you supposed to do magic?" asked Harry. 

"Oh, well- I was at Hogwarts meself but I- er- got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an' everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore." 

"Why were you, expelled?" 

"It's gettin' late, and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," said Hagrid loudly. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that." 

He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry. 

"You can kip under that," he said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only small grammar changes


	5. CHAPTER FIVE - Diagon Alley

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight. 

"It was a dream, he told himself firmly. "I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for wizards. When I open my eyes, I'll be at home in my cupboard." 

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise. Aunt Petunia is knocking on the door, Harry thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn't open his eyes. It had been such a good dream. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

"All right," Harry mumbled, "I'm getting up." 

He sat up, and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and an owl was striking its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak. 

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large balloon was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat. 

"Don't do that." 

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat. 

"Hagrid!" said Harry loudly. "There's an owl, "Pay him," Hagrid grunted into the sofa. 

"What?" 

"He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets." 

Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets, bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags... 

Finally, Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins. 

"Give him five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily. 

"Knuts?" 

"The little bronze ones." 

Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window. 

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched. 

"Best be Off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school." 

Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He had just thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had got a puncture. 

"Um- Hagrid?" 

"Mm?" said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots. 

"I haven't got any money. And you heard Uncle Vernon last night ... he won't pay for me to go and learn magic." 

"Don't worry about that," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?" 

"But if their house was destroyed-" 

"They didn' keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Have a sausage, they're not bad cold an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake, neither." 

"Wizards have banks?" 

"Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins." 

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding. 

"Goblins?" 

"Yeah, so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe, 'cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o' fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin' you gettin' things from Gringotts, knows he can trust me, see. 

"Got everythin'? Come on, then." 

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now, and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm. 

"How did you get here?" Harry asked, looking around for another boat. 

"Flew," said Hagrid. 

"Flew?" 

"Yeah, but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh." 

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying. 

"Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Harry another of his sideways looks. "If I was ter- er- speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?" 

"Of course not," said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land. 

"Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?" Harry asked. 

"Spells, enchantments," said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he spoke. "They say there's dragons guardin' the high-security vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way. Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh'd die of hunger tryin' ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat." 

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was complicated. He'd never had so many questions in his life. 

"Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered, turning the page. 

"There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked before he could stop himself. 

"'Course," said Hagrid. "They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister, o' course, but he'd never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler, if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, askin' fer advice." 

"But what does a Ministry of Magic do?" 

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country." 

"Why?" 

"Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we're best left alone." 

At this moment, the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street. 

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Harry couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, but he also kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?" 

"Hagrid," said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, "did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?" 

"Well, so they say," said Hagrid. "Crikey, I'd like a dragon." 

"You'd like one?" 

"Wanted one ever since I was a kid- here we go." 

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes. Hagrid, who didn't understand "Muggle money," as he called it, gave Harry bills so he could buy their tickets. 

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. 

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as he counted stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. 

"Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list thereof everything yeh need." 

Harry unfolded the second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the night before, and read: HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY UNIFORM

First-year students will require:  
1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black)  
2\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
4\. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags 

COURSE BOOKS  
All students should have a copy of each of the following:  
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk  
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot  
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling  
A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch  
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore  
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger  
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander  
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble 

OTHER EQUIPMENT  
Wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
Set of glass or crystal phials  
Telescope set  
Brass scales  
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad. 

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS 

"Can we buy all this in London?" Harry wondered aloud. 

"If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid. 

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the Underground's ticket barrier and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow. 

"I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," he said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops. 

Hagrid was so gigantic that he easily parted the crowd; all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants, and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there be piles of wizard gold buried miles beneath them? Were there shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn't known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn't help trusting him. 

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place." 

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside. 

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few older women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat talked to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?" 

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Harry's shoulder and making Harry's knees buckle. 

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this- can this be-?" 

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent. 

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an honor." 

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry, and seized his hand, tears in his eyes. 

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back." 

Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. 

Hagrid was beaming. 

Then there was a numerous scraping of chairs, and the next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. 

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last." 

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud." 

"Always wanted to shake your hand. I'm all of a flutter." 

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle." 

"I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle's top hat fell off in his excitement. "You bowed to me once in a shop." 

"He remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. "Did you hear that? He remembers me!" Harry shook hands again and again. Doris Crockford kept coming back for more. 

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. 

"Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell, will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts." 

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you." 

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?" 

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he'd rather not think about it. "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the very thought. 

But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble. 

"Must get on- lots ter buy. Come on, Harry." 

Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. 

Hagrid grinned at Harry. 

"Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh, you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was tremblin' ter meet yeh. Mind you, he's usually tremblin'." 

"Is he always that nervous?" 

"Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin' outta books, but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand experience... They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag, never been the same since..."

"Scared of the students, scared of his own subject now, where's me umbrella?" 

Vampires? Hags? Harry's head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can. 

"Three up... two across he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry." 

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella. 

The brick he had touched quivered, it wriggled, in the middle, a small hole appeared, it grew wider and wider. A second later, they faced an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight. 

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley." 

He grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into a concrete wall. 

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. 

Cauldrons; All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver, Self-Stirring, Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. 

"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first." 

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they're mad...." 

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium: Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand, fastest ever," There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon... 

"Gringotts," said Hagrid. 

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was - "Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. 

He had a dusty, intelligent face and a flat nose, and Harry noticed, sloped back foreheads with thick long hair. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them: Enter, stranger, but take heed Of what awaits the sin of greed, For those who take, but do not earn, Must pay most dearly in their turn. 

So if you seek beneath our floors A treasure that was never yours, Thief, you have been warned, beware Of finding more than treasure there. 

"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid. 

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors, and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. 

There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins showed people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter. 

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe." 

"You have his key, Sir?" 

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin looked at him, annoyed at the mess.

Harry watched the goblin on their right, weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals. 

"Got it," said Hagrid, at last, holding up a tiny golden key. 

The goblin looked at it closely. 

"That seems to be in order." 

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen." 

The goblin read the letter carefully. 

"Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have Someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!" 

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall. 

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Harry asked. 

"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh that." 

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward, and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled, and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in, Hagrid with some difficulty, and were off. 

At first, they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way because Griphook wasn't steering. 

Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late. They plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor. 

I never know," Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, "what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?" 

"Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it," said Hagrid. "An' don' ask me questions just now, I think I'm gonna be sick." 

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling. 

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts. 

"All yours," smiled Hagrid. 

All Harry's, it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't have known about this, or they'd have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained about how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time, there had been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London. 

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag. 

"The gold ones are Galleons," he explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe for yeh." He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?" 

"One speed only," said Griphook, snickering a little. 

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled around tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck. 

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole. 

"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his fingers, and it simply melted away. 

"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook. 

"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked. 

"About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather nasty grin. 

Something extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least. But at first, he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to know what it was but knew better than to ask. 

"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way back. It's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid. 

One wild cart ride later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life, more money than even Dudley had ever had. 

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them, Gringotts carts." He still looked a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous. 

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

"Hogwarts, clear?" she said when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here. Another young man being fitted up just now.

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him and slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length. 

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?" 

"Yes," said Harry. 

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one, and I'll smuggle it in somehow." 

Harry was reminded a bit of Dudley. 

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on. 

"No," said Harry. 

"Play Quidditch at all?" 

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be. 

"I do, Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?" 

"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute. 

"Well, no one really knows until they get there do they? But I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been. Besides I'd be killed if I was put into something like Hufflepuff." 

"Oh?" Harry muttered

"I say, look at that man!" blurted the boy, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in. 

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts." 

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?" 

"He's the gamekeeper," said Harry, annoyed more and more because of the boys' words. 

"I see..." said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?" 

"They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy. 

"Oh, sorry," said the other, "What's your surname, anyway?" 

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool. 

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the boy. 

Harry was relatively quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts). 

"What's up?" said Hagrid. 

"Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color, as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?" 

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh not knowin'!" 

"Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin's. 

"So, what is Quidditch?" 

"It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like- like soccer in the Muggle world. Everyone follows Quidditch, played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls, sorta hard ter explain the rules." 

"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"Schoolhouses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but-" 

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," said Harry gloomily. 

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. 

You-Know-Who was one." 

"Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?" 

"Years an' years ago," said Hagrid. 

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue- Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian. 

"I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley." 

"I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world except in very special circumstances," said Hagrid. "An' anyway, yeh couldn' work any of them curses yet, yeh'll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level." 

Hagrid wouldn't let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either ("It says pewter on yer list"), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of rotten eggs and soured cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter to supply some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop). 

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid rechecked Harry's list. 

"Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present." 

Harry felt himself go red. 

"You don't have to-" 

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get Yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'." 

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn't stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell. 

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand." 

A magic wand... this was what Harry had been really looking forward to. 

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. 

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strange as though he had entered a rigorous library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic. 

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise, and he got quickly off the spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. 

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly. 

"Ah, yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. 

Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." 

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. 

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. 

"Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it, it's the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." 

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes. 

"And that's where..." 

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger. 

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. 

"Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do...." 

He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid. 

"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again.... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?" 

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid. 

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern. 

"Er- yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly. 

"But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply. 

"Oh, no, sit," said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke. 

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now- Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?" 

"Er- well, I'm right-handed," said Harry. 

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand." 

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. 

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave." 

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once. 

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try." 

Harry tried, but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander. 

"No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. 

Go on, go on, try it out." 

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become. 

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere. I wonder, now- yes, why not- unusual combination: holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." 

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air, and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped, and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well. How curious... how very curious...

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious... 

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?" 

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare. 

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather, just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave you that scar." 

Harry swallowed. 

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember.... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter.... After all, He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things- terrible, yes, but great." 

Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop. 

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station, Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. 

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said. 

He bought Harry a hamburger, and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything seemed so strange, somehow. 

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid. 

Harry wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best birthday of his life, and yet, he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words. 

"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander... but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry- I mean, the night my parents died." 

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows, he wore a very kind smile. 

"Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts, I did, still do, 's matter of fact." 

Hagrid helped Harry onto the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope. 

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " he said. "First o' September, King's Cross, it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me... See yeh soon, Harry." 

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked, and Hagrid had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the goblins' description to the D&D description of them (Cause they're a bad stereotype of Jewish people). I also made Draco still be pompous, but not a complete bigot as he will have a redemption arc.


	6. CHAPTER SIX - The Journey From Platform Nine And Three-Quarters

Harry's last month with the Dursleys wasn't fun. True, Dudley was now scared of Harry so he wouldn't stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do anything, or shout at him. In fact, they didn't speak to him at all. 

Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while. 

Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for company. He had decided to call her Hedwig, a name he had found in A History of Magic. His school books were fascinating. He layed on his bed reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't come in to vacuum anymore because Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry marked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall. Counting down to September the first. 

On the last day of August, he thought he'd better speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King's Cross station the next day, so he went down to the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the room. 

"Er- Uncle Vernon?" 

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening. 

"Er- I need to be at King's Cross tomorrow to go to Hogwarts..." 

Uncle Vernon grunted again. 

"Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?" 

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes. 

"Thank you." 

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon spoke. 

"Funny way to get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?" 

Harry didn't say anything. 

"Where is this school, anyway?" 

"I don't know," said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket. 

"I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o'clock," he read. 

His aunt and uncle stared. 

"Platform what?" 

"Nine and three-quarters." 

"Don't talk rubbish," said Uncle Vernon. "There is no platform nine and three-quarters." 

"It's on my ticket." 

"Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of them. You'll see. You just wait. All right, we'll take you to King's Cross. We're going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn't bother." 

"Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to keep things friendly. 

"Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to have that ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings." 

Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he didn't want to walk into the station in his wizard's robes. He'd change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry's huge, thick trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off. 

They reached King's Cross at half-past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face. 

"Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine, platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it yet, do they?" 

He was entirely right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all. 

"Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. 

All three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth went dry. What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny looks because of Hedwig. He'd have to ask someone. 

He stopped a passing guard but didn't dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts, and when Harry couldn't even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Harry was acting stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o'clock, but the guard said there wasn't one. In the end, the guard strode away, muttering about time-wasters. Harry was now trying hard not to panic. 

According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts, and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl. 

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten. 

At that moment, a group of people passed just behind him, and he caught a few words of what they were saying. 

"Packed with Muggles, of course." 

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's in front of him, and they had an owl. 

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped, and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying. 

"Now, what's the platform number?" said the boys' mother. 

"Nine and three-quarters!" piped a small girl, also redheaded, who was holding her hand, "Mom, can't I go...

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first." 

What looked like the oldest boy, marched toward platforms nine and ten. 

Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it. But just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him, and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished. 

"Fred, you next," the plump woman said. 

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?" 

"Sorry, George, dear." 

"Only joking, I am Fred," said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so because a second later, he had gone. But how had he done it? Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier. He was almost there, and then, quite suddenly, he wasn't anywhere. 

There was nothing else for it. 

"Excuse me," Harry said to the plump woman. 

"Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too." 

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose. 

"Yes," said Harry. "The thing is- the thing is, I don't know how to..." 

"How to get onto the platform?" she said kindly, and Harry nodded. 

"Not to worry," she said. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron." 

"Okay?" said Harry. 

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid. 

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into that barrier, and then he'd be in trouble. Leaning forward on his cart, he broke into a massive run. The barrier was coming nearer and nearer, he wouldn't be able to stop, the cart was out of control, he was a foot away, he closed his eyes, ready for the crash, It didn't come... 

He kept on running. He opened his eyes. A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven O'clock. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. He had done it. 

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks. 

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. 

Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. 

He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, "Gran, I've lost my toad again." 

"Oh, Neville," he heard the old woman sigh. 

A small crowd surrounded a boy with dreadlocks. 

"Give us a look, Lee, go on." 

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg. 

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift it up the steps but could hardly raise one end, and twice he dropped it painfully on his foot. 

"Want a hand?" It was one of the red-haired twins he'd followed through the barrier. 

"Yes, please," Harry panted. 

"Oi, Fred! C'mere and help!" 

Harry's trunk was at last tucked away in the corner of the compartment with the twins' help. 

"Thanks," said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. 

"What's that?" blurted one of the twins, pointing at Harry's lightning scar. 

"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you? "He is," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry. 

"What?" said Harry. 

"Harry Potter, "chorused the twins. 

"Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am." 

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating in through the train's open door. 

"Fred? George? Are you there?" 

"Coming, Mom." 

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train. 

Harry sat down next to the window where half hidden; he could watch the red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief. 

"Ron, you've got something on your nose." 

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose. 

"Mom- geroff," He wriggled free. 

"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefin on his nosie?" said one of the twins. 

"Shut up," said Ron. 

"Where's Percy?" said their mother. 

"He's coming now." 

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny silver badge on his chest with the letter P on it. 

"Can't stay long, Mother," he said. "I'm up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves." 

"Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea." 

"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it," said the other twin. "Once," 

"Or twice," 

"A minute," 

"All summer," 

"Oh, shut up," said Percy the Prefect. 

"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?" said one of the twins. 

"Because he's a prefect," said their mother fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term, send me an owl when you get there." 

She kissed Percy on the cheek, and he left. Then she turned to the twins. 

"Now, you two, this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you've; you've blown up a toilet or-" 

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet." 

"Great idea though, thanks, Mom." 

"It's not funny. And look after Ron." 

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us." 

"Shut up," repeated Ron. He was almost as tall as the twins already, and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it. 

"Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?" 

Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn't see him looking. 

"You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?" 

"Who?" 

"Harry Potter!" 

Harry heard the little girl's voice. 

"Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, eh please...." 

"You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?" 

"Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there, like lightning." 

"Poor dear, no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform." 

"Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?" 

Their mother suddenly became very stern. 

"I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though he needs reminding of that on his first day at school." 

"All right, keep your hair on." 

A whistle sounded. 

"Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry. 

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls." 

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat." 

"George!" 

"Only joking, Mom." 

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved. 

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window, and Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn't know what he was going to, but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind. 

The door of the compartment slid open, and the youngest redheaded boy came in. 

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. 

"Everywhere else is full." 

Harry shook his head, and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then glanced out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Harry saw he still had a black mark on his nose. 

"Hey, Ron." 

The twins were back. 

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train, Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there." 

"Right," mumbled Ron. 

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then. 

"Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them. 

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out. 

Harry nodded. 

"Oh, well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got- you know..." 

He pointed at Harry's forehead. 

Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared. 

"So that's where You-Know-Who..." 

"Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it." 

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly. 

"Well- I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else." 

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again. 

"Are all your family wizards?" asked Harry, who found Ron just as interesting as Ron found him. 

"Er- Yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mom's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him." 

"So you must know loads of magic already." 

"I heard you went to live with Muggles," said Ron. "What are they like?" 

"Horrible, well-, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are, though. Wish I'd had three wizard brothers." 

"Five," said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. "I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left. Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat." 

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep. 

"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff- I mean, I got Scabbers instead." 

Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much because he went back to staring out of the window. 

Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, he'd never had any money in his life until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley's old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up. 

"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn't know anything about being a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort." 

Ron gasped. 

"What?" said Harry. 

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people-" 

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," said Harry. I just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've got loads to learn... I bet," he added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying him a lot lately, "I bet I'm the worst in the class." 

"You won't be. There's loads of people who come from Muggle families and they learn quick enough." 

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. 

Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past. 

Around half-past twelve, there was a great clattering outside in the corridor, and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?" 

Harry, who hadn't had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron's ears went pink again, and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor. 

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver, he was ready to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry, but the woman didn't have Mars Bars. She did have; Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and several other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts. 

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back into the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat. 

"Hungry, are you?" 

"Starving," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. 

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef." 

"Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go on." 

"You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us." 

"Go on, have a pasty," said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten). 

"What are these?" Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. 

"They're not really frogs, are they?" He was starting to feel that nothing would surprise him. 

"No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa." 

"What?" 

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know, Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside them, you know, to collect, famous witches and wizards. I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy." 

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore. 

"So this is Dumbledore!" said Harry. 

"Don't tell me you'd never heard of Dumbledore!" said Ron. "Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa," Harry turned over his card and read: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling. 

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that Dumbledore's face had disappeared. 

"He's gone!" 

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her... do you want it? You can start collecting." 

Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped. 

"Help yourself," said Harry. "But in, you know, the Muggle world, people just stay put in photos." 

"Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "Weird!" 

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the frogs than looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn't keep his eyes off them. Soon, he had Dumbledore and Morgana and Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. 

He finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. 

"You want to be careful with those," Ron warned Harry. "When they say every flavor, they mean every flavor, you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger flavored one once." 

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a corner. 

"Bleaaargh, see? Sprouts." 

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end of a funny gray one Ron wouldn't touch, which turned out to be pepper. 

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. 

There was a knock on their compartment door, and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on platform nine and threequarters came in. He looked tearful. 

"Sorry," he said, "but have you seen a toad at all?" 

When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!" 

"He'll turn up," said Harry. 

"Yes," said the boy miserably. "Well, if you see him..." 

He left. 

"Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk." 

The rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap. 

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said Ron in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..." 

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places, and something white was glinting at the end. 

"Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway, He had just raised his 'wand when the compartment door slid open again. 

The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes. 

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth. 

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron, but the girl wasn't listening. She was looking at the wand in his hand. 

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then." 

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback. 

"Er- all right." 

He cleared his throat. 

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." 

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast asleep. 

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice, and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you. 

She said all this very fast. 

Harry looked at Ron and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn't learned all the course books by heart either. 

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered. 

"Harry Potter," said Harry. 

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course. I got a few extra books. for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. 

"Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed. 

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," said Hermione. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad... Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon." 

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her. 

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. "Stupid spell, George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud." 

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry. 

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin." 

"That's the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?" 

"Yeah," said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed. 

"You know, I think the ends of Scabbers' whiskers are a bit lighter," said Harry, trying to take Ron's mind off houses. "So what do your oldest brothers do now that they've left, anyway?" 

Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he'd finished school. 

"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing something for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you get that with the Muggles, someone tried to rob a high security vault." 

Harry stared. 

"Really? What happened to them?" 

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it." 

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable saying "Voldemort" without worrying. 

"What's your Quidditch team?" Ron asked. 

"Er- I don't know any," Harry confessed. 

"What!" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best game in the world-" And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time. 

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley. 

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" 

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were thickset and looked all too mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards. 

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy." 

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him. 

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." 

He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." 

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it. 

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly. 

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks. 

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said

"Are you threatening us?" Ron said, his face as red as his hair. 

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Malfoy sneered. 

"Unless you get out now," said Harry, more bravely than he felt because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron. 

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron - Ron leapt forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell. 

Scabbers, the rat, was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle. Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbets finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought more rats were lurking among the sweets, or maybe they'd heard footsteps because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in. 

"What has been going on?" she said, looking at the sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail. 

I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry. He looked closer at Scabbers. "No- I don't believe it, he's gone back to sleep-" 

And so he had. 

"You've met Malfoy before?" 

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley. 

"I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side." He turned to Hermione. "Can we help you with something?" 

"You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!" 

"Scabbers has been fighting, not us," said Ron, scowling at her. "Would you mind leaving while we change?" 

"All right- I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?" 

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down. 

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes. 

Ron's were a bit short for him. You could see his sneakers underneath them. 

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately." 

Harry's stomach lurched with nerves, and Ron, he saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor. 

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a small, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?" 

Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads. 

"C'mon, follow me, any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!" 

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice. 

"Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here." 

There was a loud "Oooooh!" 

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black take. 

Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky was a vast castle with many turrets and towers. 

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione. "Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then, FORWARD!" 

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood. 

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads, and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles. 

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them. 

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. 

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the enormous, Oak front door. 

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?" 

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly changes with Draco, again for his character development.


End file.
